Body Count Read online

  In the final analysis, it didn’t matter all that much that he had seen Vespa, since Dunn also saw him. And then Dunn identified him from that fortuitous picture in the next day’s paper.

  That Koesler had been dragged into the investigation of the missing Father Keating was not so much a matter of happenstance. By now, Koesler was almost accustomed to having his precious routine interrupted by a homicide investigation that bore a heavily Catholic aspect. Like the swallows returning to Capistrano or the buzzards to Hinckley, it had become an annual event.

  But this was the first time he had known who did it before the investigation even began. With but a couple of exceptions, it was the only time he had been sacramentally prevented from participating fully in the case.

  What a strange affair … capped by the missing body! And now, in all probability, he was about to find out what had really happened to Father Keating’s body. Would he be able to use productively the information he was about to learn? Probably not. Unless Vespa were to free him from the secrecy of Vespa’s own confession—which seemed highly unlikely—everything would still be bound by that earlier confession.

  So … this evening would be entirely devoted to the service of one needy soul.

  With this thought, Koesler arrived at the marketplace.

  The only establishment open at this hour in this part of town was the Roma Café, too far distant to shed any light here. Otherwise the marketplace was deserted.

  During the season, farmers brought their fresh produce, plants, and flowers to the market. During business hours trade in the outdoor market was brisk. Now the area resembled a stage set: an uncompleted cluster of buildings with ancient roofs and no walls, which had been deserted and abandoned. Papers, driven by a slight breeze, drifted along the pavements and walkways. Creatures were stirring, but only to feed on the scraps left behind when the farmers departed. Only a few streetlights were functioning. They did little beyond casting unreal shadows. Even though Koesler’s eyes had adapted to the darkness, he could not see very clearly.

  “You been waitin’ long, Father?”

  This was the third time he had heard the voice. In the confessional, over the phone a few hours ago, and now.

  Guido Vespa.

  Koesler about-faced abruptly. At first, he could make out only the outline of the other man. But from that outline, he could tell the man was easily as tall as himself and considerably heftier. As Vespa stepped closer, his face moved in and out of the unreliable light.

  Koesler was at a loss to know how Vespa had arrived. The priest had neither seen nor heard any vehicle entering the market area. And it was quiet enough to have heard such a sound clearly. Vespa must have parked away from the scene, possibly on Gratiot.

  “I said, You been waitin’ long, Father?”

  “What? Oh, no. Just a few minutes, I guess.”

  “It’s just 11:30,” Vespa said.

  Koesler looked at his watch. He was able to tell the time only because of the luminous dial. “So it is. Just 11:30. Well, let’s get down to business, Mr. Vespa.”

  “Guido,” Vespa suggested. Then, “You was there,” he said flatly. “You know.”

  “Guido then,” Koesler replied. “Yes, I was at Trinity Church today when they opened the coffin.”

  “How’d he look?”

  “Huh? Who?”

  “Father Kern.” Typically, Vespa used the title Kern had preferred: Father.

  “He looked okay, I guess … I mean for having been dead and buried for so long.”

  “That’s good. He was an up-front guy.”

  “I agree. But that’s neither here nor there. There was only one body. The undertakers took out all the lining. There was no false bottom. The body of Father Keating simply was not there. So … ?”

  “That’s part of what I gotta tell you,” Vespa said. “I made that up … the part about putting Keating in with Father Kern.”

  Koesler was once again surprised. Both he and Dunn had been banking on the alternate scenario that had someone exhuming Keating’s body after Vespa and company had paired Keating and Kern. So Vespa, by his own admission, had lied about Keating’s disposition.

  “But … why?”

  “I shouldna done it. I always do somethin’ stupid like that. Never leave well enough alone. I was tryna be cute. It seemed like a nice touch. I mean, Father Kern woulda helped a guy like Keating. He was always doin’ that kinda thing. Now I got a problem. If I hadn’t told you what I told you, this whole thing wouldna blew up. When I told you I planted Keating with Father Kern, I didn’t have any idea they was gonna dig up Father Kern. If I’da known that, I’da never made that thing up.”

  “When do the lies stop, Guido? Did you even have a contract?”

  “Oh, yeah. I had a contract okay. I’m not makin’ anything up anymore. This is straight. I even told—well, never mind, it was the person who gave me the contract that I told I was gonna see you tonight. I’m gettin’ everything straight. You can put what I’m tellin’ you tonight in the book. I swear on my mother’s grave.”

  “Okay, Guido, I believe you. What is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

  “Hey, that’s just like in court. Okay. Get this, Father: That wasn’t no confession I made to you.”

  There were several moments of silence as Vespa let this information sink in, and Koesler, for his part, digested this strange statement.

  “It was no confession?”

  “No. I used to go to confession once in a while. A long time ago. Once in a while, but not much. That wasn’t my second confession after the one I did before First Communion. It wasn’t no confession at all. It was part of the contract. Honest to God, Father, it was part of the contract. And that ain’t all—“

  It happened quickly and suddenly, but there was an indefinable rhythm, even choreography, to it. The shots thundered in this cavernous space. As if the huge man were weightless, Vespa’s body jerked up and seemed to hang in midair for a split second.

  Almost simultaneously, actually a split second later, Koesler was spun around. He pitched to the pavement as if he had been slam-dunked.

  The pain in his shoulder permeated his body. He clenched his teeth as he winced. His mind clouded over. Fearing loss of consciousness, he bent every power of his brain to fight off the darkness.

  The longer he remained conscious the more clearly he felt the agonizing pain in his shoulder. Still, he fought the looming unconsciousness that threatened to engulf him.

  He was able to move his head. So he could see the hulk of Vespa lying facedown a few feet away. “Guido? Guido!”

  No response. Koesler was unable to tell if there was much blood draining from either of them. Maybe Vespa was merely unconscious. Koesler prayed through the waves of pain and nausea that that was so.

  He heard a siren in the distance. He fervently hoped it was coming for them. There was no other possible way he could think of to get out of this mess. Neither he nor Vespa could help themselves, let alone each other.

  The siren continued to grow louder. At least it was coming in their direction. With the run of luck he was having, he half expected the sound to continue to increase until it passed them and then diminish in the distance as it answered some other emergency.

  But it didn’t. The volume crescendoed until the blue and white screeched to a stop near the two fallen men. The driver headed for Vespa, his partner to Koesler. The priest thought he heard the driver say, “He’s gone!”

  He managed to ask, “How did you … ?” Then he found it difficult to speak.

  “Someone heard shots and called 911.” The policeman turned to his partner. “Get EMS.” Koesler sank back into grayness.

  As the ambulance sped toward Receiving Hospital, he felt his clothing being cut away. Somebody had applied a pressure bandage to stanch the flow of blood.

  Koesler hoped they would give him something for the pain. They did not. Their only concern at the moment was to stop the bleeding and get him t
o the hospital as quickly as possible.

  Someone asked him who the president of the United States was. The question actually had him stumped for a moment. He gave brief thought to, as a joke, giving them the name of Cardinal Mark Boyle. Boyle at one time had been president of the United States Conference of Bishops.

  Fortunately, Koesler rejected this momentary temptation to frivolity. The ambulance crew was in no mood, and the mistaken identification would have clouded the diagnosis.

  Once they reached the hospital, the flurry of professional activity amplified.

  Koesler, the center of all this attention, could only wish this whole thing hadn’t happened. He had an impression of himself as a piece of meat whose various cuts were being processed. Somebody had taken his blood pressure. He tried to hear what the count was, but so many people were talking simultaneously he couldn’t isolate on any of them.

  Several X rays were taken of his shoulder area. He wouldn’t have known that so clearly but that several consecutive times the cubicle he occupied was cleared of all personnel.

  Finally, a doctor—bearded, young, olive-complexioned—appeared directly in Koesler’s vision. “Father, there’s a bullet in your shoulder. It’s got to come out. Other than that, you seem to be in good shape. A few bruises, but the bullet is our concern.”

  This was followed by injections, a peaceful, floating feeling, and finally, mercifully, unconsciousness.

  19

  Father Koesler sensed that he had awakened more than once through the night. But this time his head was just a little clearer.

  He looked around. No doubt about it, this was a hospital room. And, he observed gratefully, a private room. The times he had awakened earlier it was difficult to know whether he was dreaming. The dull, throbbing pain in his shoulder argued in favor of reality.

  But this was the morning of a bleak, overcast day. His brain was beginning to function with some clarity. He remembered–or thought he remembered–a nurse explaining that if he experienced pain, he should push the button on his contraption just to the left of his bed. That would feed a measured dose of painkiller into him. He pushed the button.

  Next, he tried to put the events of last evening together. It was not easy. Nothing even remotely similar had ever happened to him before.

  Okay. He met Guido Vespa at the Eastern Market. Koesler remembered how dark it had been and how poorly lit the area was. It had been the first time he and Guido had been together when both of them were standing. They were roughly the same height, but Vespa was much heavier. All of this together probably explained why Koesler would not have seen the gunman. It was dark, and everything was in shadows. Koesler would most likely have not seen anyone approaching to the rear of Vespa due to Vespa’s bulk. Additionally, he had been paying such close attention to Vespa’s incredible story that it would have taken an almost deliberate effort of a third party to be noticed by Koesler.

  And that brought him to the crux of the matter: Vespa’s message.

  Could he take seriously Vespa’s claim that he had invented the detail of burying Father Keating with Monsignor Kern? Koesler believed he had to take the man seriously. For one thing, there hadn’t been an extra body in the coffin. But also–and Koesler now felt this to be so–last night Vespa was not kidding. It was almost as if he somehow realized that something was about to happen. In effect, it was a deathbed confession that became an actual confession at the point of death.

  If that were true, then the heart of what he said also fell into the realm of a deathbed confession. And that was that he had had no intention whatsoever of making a sacramental confession on that memorable Saturday afternoon. It had been–what did Vespa say?—part of the contract. It was what theologians term “simulation.” It appeared to be the real thing, but it was sham. On the other side of the confessional, it would be as if the priest were to pretend to absolve but did not. Or like a priest pretending to consecrate the bread and wine at Mass but withholding the intention to consecrate.

  Thus, Vespa’s confession was no confession at all. So, Koesler–and, for that matter, Dunn–was not bound by the seal of confession.

  The remaining question was a very large Why? Vespa had explained last night that his pretending to make a confession was part of the contract to kill Keating. But why did the contract carry that provision?

  As his thinking became more and more lucid, almost everything that came to mind ended in a question mark.

  Why did Vespa fake a confession? Why would anyone stipulate to that as part of a contract? What had happened to Guido Vespa? Could he have survived last night’s shooting? Did whoever fired that gun intend to kill Koesler? Lots of questions, very few–or no–answers.

  Koesler was not feeling at all well. His right arm lay across his waist in a sling and the arm was bound tightly to his body by a bandage around his chest. The pain was less sharp than it had been, but he did not want to press the morphine button again. In fact, he felt somewhat nauseated.

  He located the nurse’s call button and pressed it. Within seconds the door opened. But instead of a nurse, Inspector Koznicki and Lieutenant Tully entered. Koesler’s expression telegraphed his surprise.

  Koznicki smiled warmly. “We were waiting for you to wake up.”

  Koesler returned the smile, though it was modified by his discomfort. “I guess I’m glad to see you. But I really need the nurse just now.”

  With some confusion the two officers abruptly left the room, to be immediately replaced by a nurse. As soon as she heard his symptoms, she left, to return at once with an injection that quickly calmed his stomach.

  Almost apologetically, the two men returned.

  “You gave us a scare and a surprise,” Koznicki said. “The last thing I expected to hear last night was that you had been shot in the company of Guido Vespa in Eastern Market close to midnight.”

  Koesler nodded slowly. “How is Guido? Did he make it?”

  Koznicki shook his head. “He was dead at the scene. But you, how are you feeling?”

  “I’ve been lots better. I guess I was shot. That’s a first. I haven’t seen the doctor yet.” It occurred to Koesler that the officers probably had seen his doctor. “How am I?” he added.

  Koznicki smiled. “You will be all right. You sustained a shoulder wound from a bullet that seems to have passed through Guido Vespa and lodged in you. The surgeon says that your rotator cuff has been virtually destroyed–a combination of the wound and the fall you took after being shot. But everyone assures us that with a strong program of physical therapy, you should be almost as good as new.”

  As Koznicki explained this, Koesler looked from one officer to the other. Koznicki was a policeman. But in this instance, he was first and foremost a good and close friend to Koesler. Tully, on the other hand, was in all instances a cop. And he was evidencing an eagerness to get some relevant facts. At this point, there seemed to be an implicit agreement among the three men that it was time to get down to business. Unspoken were Koesler’s acquiescence to be interrogated and Koznicki’s permission for Tully to interrogate.

  “To begin then, Father,” Tully said, “what were you doing there with Vespa?”

  “He called earlier last night and asked that I meet him there. It’s kind of a long story–one I couldn’t tell you before, and one I can tell you now.” Koesler began with Vespa’s confession that Saturday afternoon. The mere mention of the confession brought a startled look to Koznicki’s face. It bespoke his astonishment that Father Koesler would reveal what had been told him under the sacramental seal.

  Koesler of course anticipated this reaction. Koznicki worried over the sacramental breach. Tully was more concerned with the legal implications of the confession.

  So Koesler explained–several times, from different angles to make sure his freedom to talk now was completely understood–how the sacramental seal had been reduced to no more than a professional secret at best. From Vespa’s spontaneous revelation and the manner in which the explanation w
as made, it was clear that he had wanted Koesler to understand. Even if it were a professional secret, the need to solve Keating’s murder mandated Koesler’s complete candor in revealing his information to the police.

  That explained, the three settled down to analyze the information.

  Koesler proved far more easily convinced that Vespa’s claim to have double-buried Keating was poetic license. The officers, particularly Tully, decided to put that on the back burner to be resolved later, perhaps at the closing of the case.

  Of more immediate interest was a contract that called not only for a murder but also for the confession–albeit simulated—of that killing to Father Koesler.

  While Koesler was at a loss to understand it, neither of the police seemed to have any problem with it. “It was meant to silence you,” Koznicki stated.

  “This began as a missing persons investigation,” Tully said. “It turned into a suspected homicide case. The important thing is that the central character was a priest.”

  “In the past,” Koznicki continued, “you have been generous enough to give your time and insider’s knowledge to investigations such as this. Sometimes you have happened to be on the scene. More often we have asked for your cooperation and participation.”

  “And that,” Tully said, “is actually exactly what happened here. We were called in on the missing priest case, and I called you. Whoever gave Vespa that contract knew our past association well enough to guess that we’d call on you. And we did. But you couldn’t give us much help, could you?”

  “Well, no,” Koesler admitted. “I couldn’t do much of anything. I was mindful all the time that I couldn’t do anything that might compromise the seal.”

  “Clever, was it not?” Koznicki said. “Whoever commissioned Vespa guessed correctly all the way along, and removed you from any active participation in this case by having Vespa make that bogus confession.”

  “I’m curious,” Tully said. “What did you think when the investigation turned to Carl Costello–Vespa’s grandfather?”